Gospel Story Finder

One such opportunity came unexpectedly. My companion and I were once “trapped” in a room surrounded by ministers from another church who were trying to discredit our teachings. We refused to contend with them and silently prayed for a way to escape. Then, a seminary lesson came to mind. I asked them, “How would you describe the taste of salt to someone who has never tasted it?” Some tried but could not do so, until one finally said, “It’s simple—just taste it!” I then held up my copy of the Book of Mormon and asked, “Has any of you read this book?” No one raised their hand or responded in the affirmative. Only silence ensued. That gave us the opportunity to bear our testimonies and invite them to read it for themselves. The encounter ended peacefully, and word of it spread in the community, opening doors that had previously been closed to us.

My first visit to Queenstown as a newly appointed alternate high councilor in the Durban South Africa Stake was to be the beginning of many unforgettable experiences. Those experiences would lead me to understand better how our Heavenly Father touches the hearts of his children of all races and how he extends his love and protection to those who try to serve him.
Queenstown is located in the eastern part of the Cape Province, surrounded by mountains and situated between states inhabited by the blacks of the Ciskei and Transkei. I was assigned to Church units in East London, on the coast; Queenstown; Sada and Cimezile in the Ciskei; and Illinge in the Transkei.
As a recent immigrant from Harare, Zimbabwe, I served at first as a companion to Brother Dennis Raubenheimer on these visits. He was familiar with the areas we covered because he had served in the district presidency.
The Queenstown Branch has a unique meetinghouse—a funeral parlor provided rent-free by the owners, who have no affiliation with the Church. It has wood-paneled walls, soft lighting, special pews, and an organ. The final speaker in sacrament meeting is usually interrupted by the clanging of bells from the church next door. The noise sometimes continues for several minutes, and the speaker must decide whether to be silent for that time, or to speak louder than the noise. Branch meetings begin at 7:00 A.M. on Sunday so those who will be visiting the outlying branches in the black states will have time to travel.
After that first visit to Queenstown, Brother Raubenheimer and I departed for Ilinge, where we met with branch president Augustine Mjiba and the more than seventy Saints there. They met in a rented school classroom with a corrugated metal roof and a dirt floor. They share the building with another religious group, which uses African drums to lead its singing. But in spite of the interruptions by the drumming and singing, we felt the Spirit in abundance and experienced a warmth and love for the Saints who meet in such conditions.
Our next visit to Queenstown included stops at the Sada and Cimezile branches.
Church members at Sada met in a school building similar to the one at Ilinge, except that the floor is of pine strips. President Headman Gquola greeted us with his beaming smile as we arrived. Once again, each member of the sixty-strong branch stood in line, awaiting their turn to greet us eagerly with a handshake.
In these branches we use translators because the majority of the Saints can not understand English any more than we can understand their native Xhosa. (This handicap is being overcome, as high council members have been instructed by the stake president to learn that language.) The singing in these branches is a delightful experience. One has to hear the unique harmony and volume of their singing to appreciate fully the joy of their pure, resonant voices.
After a most uplifting meeting with the Sada Saints, we traveled to Cimezile on a winding gravel road. One has to be constantly alert to hazards such as wandering sheep and goats on these roads, as well as the perils of crossing rocky river beds; on one occasion, the muffler was ripped from the exhaust system of my car.
In Cimezile I met one of the most spiritual families that I have ever known, Wilson and Judith Nqunqa and their eight children. Brother Nqunqa had done the high-quality stone work of the outer walls of their typical rondavel African home. Pictures of the Church president and General Authorities and posters with the words to our hymns line the walls of their spotlessly clean home.
Brother Raubenheimer remarked that in their humble home, where even the children spoke in soft tones, the reverence and spirit we experienced was as it might have been in the house of the Lord.

Thank you for publishing the June 2001 special issue about standards. As I read it, it was as though the whole issue was written for me. In particular, I wanted to thank you for the article “Speaking of Kissing.” A year ago at Especially for Youth, I made a decision to not kiss until I was married. The past year when thinking about that decision, I worried that by refusing to kiss I might offend someone. That article caused me to realize my decision would not offend a young man willing to honor my standards. Thank you again for that issue and for that article.
Becky KendallRichardson, Texas

Awhile back, I got into very deep trouble with a guy. After reading the special issue I finally got up enough courage to go to my bishop and tell him my problem. Then I also went to the Lord for repentance. Then I felt so much better. I am almost a junior in high school. I am active in sports and love singing and dancing. I am a counselor in my Young Women class. Thank you so much for bringing out this wonderful magazine.

David Whitmer, in 1878, told Joseph F. Smith and Orson Pratt a story that includes three more visits, the fifteenth through seventeenth. He was traveling with Oliver Cowdery and Joseph Smith to Fayette, New York to finish the translation when “a very pleasant, nice-looking old man suddenly appeared by the side of our wagon and saluted us with, ‘good morning, it is very warm,’ at the same time wiping his face or forehead with his hand. We returned the greeting, and, by a sign from Joseph, I invited him to ride if he was going our way. But he said very pleasantly, ‘No, I am going to Cumorah.’ This name was something new to me, I did not know what Cumorah meant. We all gazed at him and at each other, and as I looked around inquiringly of Joseph, the old man instantly disappeared, so that I did not see him again.
“Joseph F. Smith: Did you notice his appearance?
“David Whitmer: I should think I did. He was … about one and one-half meters tall … ; he was dressed in a suit of brown woolen clothes, his hair and beard were white. I also remember that he had on his back a sort of backpack with something in [it] shaped like a book. It was the messenger who had the plates, who had taken them from Joseph just prior to our starting from Harmony. Soon after our arrival home, I saw something which led me to the belief that the plates were placed or concealed in my father’s barn. I frankly asked Joseph if my supposition was right, and he told me it was.” (Minutes of the School of the Prophets, Salt Lake Stake, 3 October 1883.)

“One of the most significant moments of my life came at my daughter-in-law’s funeral. I learned a lesson in faith from our son. He stood with his aching, empty arms reaching out to the coffin of his young wife and said, “This isn’t the way I thought it was going to be. But it’s all right because God’s principles suffice.”
The path upward from the valleys of such sorrows is not easy, but it is clear.
“He took the principles of the gospel and applied them. They work! They always do! That is the key to getting over whatever challenge or disappointment we meet in this life. If you do things the Lord’s way, whatever way it comes out is all right.
“The secret of getting through life is coming to know our Father in Heaven and his Son. If you don’t know the Lord and feel his power and influence, if you don’t feel the promptings of the Spirit, if you don’t know the Lord is your friend, then everything else is like building your house on sand. You don’t have a sure foundation.”
And how do you arrive at this sacred knowledge?
“You pray all of the time. I have profound respect for the Savior and our Heavenly Father and want to be close to them, but I have tried to train myself not to think they are on my level or put myself on theirs. When I get in a tight situation, there is a mental bending and bowing of my head as I seek God’s will, because I know how important it is to have his Spirit with me. I can honestly say that the worst mistakes I make are when I go charging off on my own, or lean on the arm of flesh, or get to feeling confident in my own experience or wisdom. Fortunately, the Lord is very patient with us while we learn, isn’t he?
“With the knowledge we have, we may mourn, but we need never despair. We have a little granddaughter in Seattle, Washington. There the daily rain keeps the sun and stars alike hidden much of the time, so she hasn’t really seen stars. We think there are lessons to learn from them; they are brighter in winter’s night, you know. I explained this to this little girl when we stood on a clear night looking into heaven. I smiled at her wonderment at first seeing stars crowd the nighttime.
“‘Are they there every time it gets dark, even if I don’t see them?’ she asked. I assured her they were, even behind the clouds.
“‘Then darkness isn’t so bad, is it? If you know the stars are there.’
“It has application to life, doesn’t it?”

When they talked to their parents about going on missions, the two young men expected sterner opposition. Perhaps the elder Moreiras did not withhold their permission because they were grateful for the Church’s influence on their sons. Nevertheless, the parents—particularly Tino and Quim’s mother—resisted the idea of changing religions themselves.
But the influence of the gospel continued to work in the lives of Quim and Tino’s family. Shortly after Tino entered the mission field, their father was ready for baptism. Tino, who was working nearby, had the privilege of baptizing him. Their mother declined at first even to read her sons’ letters from the mission field. Quim sent one letter home, however, with a special prayer that she would read it and be touched. His prayer was answered, and it was not long until she was baptized by her husband.

One youth described how he first experienced the spirit of worship. He had been marginally active through his Aaronic Priesthood years. When he attended sacrament meeting, he usually sat in the back with a group of his friends, and he was less than a model of reverence.

One day, however, he came in a little late, and there were no seats by his friends. He sat alone, and for the first time in his life, he closed his eyes during the prayers, he sang the hymns, he listened to the sacrament prayers, and he paid attention to the speakers.

About midway through the first speaker, he found tears welling up in his eyes. With some embarrassment, he carefully glanced around; no one else seemed emotional. He didn’t know for sure what was happening to him, but the experience changed his life. It was during that meeting that he really started his spiritual preparation for his mission. He felt something, and fortunately, he acted and thus sustained those feelings.

Growing up in a faithful, active Latter-day Saint family, I never thought that one day a child of mine would leave the Church.
My husband and I had married in the temple and eventually had seven children. We did everything we could to obey the counsel of the prophets. We taught our children the gospel, shared our testimonies with them, attended Sunday meetings together, held family home evening, prayed daily both morning and night, and read scriptures as a family. None of our actions, however, prevented our son from leaving the Church.
In my sorrow I turned to the Lord for strength and came to understand more clearly the role of agency in our lives. Still I wondered, “What more can I do? Certainly there is something I can do to bring him back to the truth.” I prayed for our son, but I felt I wasn’t doing enough. Certainly, if I had enough faith, wouldn’t he change?
Such thoughts ran through my mind as I went to sleep one night. Heavenly Father saw fit to answer my questions through a dream. It was a simple dream, but for me its meaning was profound.
In my dream I was standing in the middle of my vegetable garden. I had planted and watered the seeds, but the plants had not begun to grow. In my dream I told my plants to grow. I nagged them to grow! Then I began to laugh at myself. The very idea of trying to get my plants to grow by telling them to do so was absurd.
Then I awoke. I immediately understood my dream’s meaning. My son was the seed I was trying to get to grow. But just as I could not make the garden seeds grow, I cannot make my son change. Inherent in each seed of my garden is a God-given ability to grow, and it is God who directs the growth of each seed. Likewise, my son has the ability to grow because he is a spirit son of Heavenly Father. But if growth and change are to occur in his life, they will result from his agency coupled with God’s power.
In my dream garden, I planted the seeds, watered the garden, pulled out offending weeds, and sought in every way to nourish my seeds. Likewise, in my role as a mother I plant seeds in the lives of my children. With Heavenly Father’s help, I teach them, try to be an example for them, share my testimony with them, and love them, doing all in my power to be an instrument for good in their lives. Then I must wait. In due time the Master Gardener will help the seeds to grow.
In the meantime He helps me to wait with patience. He fills my heart with hope. He reminds me that I am doing all that He requires of me. He gives me daily evidence of His love. In every way I need, He supports me.
So I will wait, pray, trust in His promises, and continue to plant seeds. The harvest will come.

My best friend always used to say the Lord’s name in vain, and every time I heard her say it I felt bad. One night I decided to pray about it. The next day when I heard her say the Lord’s name in vain again, I told her that it wasn’t right and that I didn’t like it. That same day, she heard someone else using the Lord’s name in vain and said the same thing I had said to her. I have never heard her say the Lord’s name in vain again. This showed me that I can help lots of people by teaching just one. I am grateful that Heavenly Father helped me to tell my friend how I felt.

In heaven’s economy, true maturity is the conversion of becoming childlike. With all the duties and responsibilities that weigh him down, I’d submit that our prophet President Thomas S. Monson is a prototypical example of maturing into this childlike ideal:
I reiterate that, as holders of the priesthood of God, it is our duty to live our lives in such a way that we may be examples of righteousness for others to follow. As I have pondered how we might best provide such examples, I have thought of an experience I had some years ago while attending a stake conference. During the general session, I observed a young boy sitting with his family on the front row of the stake center. I was seated on the stand. As the meeting progressed, I began to notice that if I crossed one leg over the other, the young boy would do the same thing. If I reversed the motion and crossed the other leg, he would follow suit. I would put my hands in my lap, and he would do the same. I rested my chin in my hand, and he also did so. Whatever I did, he would imitate my actions. This continued until the time approached for me to address the congregation. I decided to put him to the test. I looked squarely at him, certain I had his attention, and then I wiggled my ears. He made a vain attempt to do the same, but I had him! He just couldn’t quite get his ears to wiggle. He turned to his father, who was sitting next to him, and whispered something to him. He pointed to his ears and then to me. As his father looked in my direction, obviously to see my ears wiggle, I sat solemnly with my arms folded, not moving a muscle. The father glanced back skeptically at his son, who looked slightly defeated. He finally gave me a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders. [“Examples of Righteousness,” Ensign, May 2008, 66]

One of Amanda’s great-great grandsons is Hal Loren Taylor, my father. In February 1966 he was serving as president of the Southwest Indian Mission, headquartered in Holbrook, Arizona. While in Salt Lake City for training meetings, he and my mother had to take my two-year-old sister, Susan, who was critically ill, to the Primary Children’s Hospital. When the meetings concluded, Dad left Mom and Susie there in the hospital in Salt Lake City while he returned to the mission in Arizona. He later recounted,

I had a terrible cloud of discouragement over me and I didn’t want to leave them. . . . This heaviness seemed to become worse the closer I got to Holbrook. When I arrived that night, I was so discouraged that I felt I would simply work and work hard enough that I might overcome this terrible feeling.

He started going through the large stack of letters on his desk. A thick letter from a friend who worked out on the Indian reservation caught his attention. He opened it and began to read, hoping to receive some words of encouragement. Instead, the letter contained harsh criticism of him personally and his approach to teaching the gospel to the Lamanites. He stopped reading partway through the letter, his discouragement reaching a new low. He buried his face in his hands and cried aloud, “What am I doing down here?” feeling that the Lord had forsaken him. In that moment the following occurred:

I no more than said those words when a glorious spiritual experience took place where in it was brought so clearly to my mind that I thought someone was speaking these words to me: “Fear not, I am with thee, be not dismayed, for I am Thy God and will still give thee aid. I’ll strengthen thee, I’ll help thee, and cause thee to stand.” That is where the message ended. I looked up from having my head in my hands almost expecting to see someone, or the words written on the wall, because of the glorious feeling which I had. I saw no one, but know that somehow the Lord was giving me the encouragement which I badly needed. I remember straightening up my shoulders and raising my head and feeling a strength that I had never felt before. . . . I realized like I had never realized before that the Lord did not neglect his servants. I cannot remember ever having a real discouraging feeling for the next two and a half years of mission work. [Personal history of Hal Loren Taylor, unpublished manuscript]

My sister, Susie, survived. Although she still has health challenges, she is today the happy mother of a missionary son who this week completes his service in Chicago, Illinois. My father finished his mission in Arizona and four more that followed, faithfully relying on that firm foundation, the Savior. My father recently celebrated his 92nd birthday.

On Church assignment in Hawaii, Sister Wirthlin and I visited the island of Molokai. As we walked back to our car after laboring up a trail in the mountains, we came upon a young man headed toward the overlook. I offered a polite greeting. From his answer, I could tell he was from Germany.
His countenance bespoke a sincere heart and an approachable personality. I spoke his language and knew something of his culture, having served a German-speaking mission. The Spirit prompted me to introduce the gospel to him. However, other people around us interrupted our brief encounter without my having said a word about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I failed to be the missionary that every member of the Savior’s Church ought to be.
As we drove away, I had the disturbing feeling that I had failed in my duty to proclaim the gospel. I was troubled while we drove around the island to see Molokai’s beautiful waterfalls. As we got out of our car, another car drove up and stopped. The young man we had seen earlier stepped out, smiled, and gave me a warm handshake. As I grasped his outstretched hand, I thought to myself, This time I will do my duty.
We introduced ourselves, and I learned he was a university student in a small city south of Düsseldorf, Germany. We spoke of my fond memories of Germany and of my admiration for the German people. Speaking of my work in Europe gave me an ideal opportunity to explain some of the basics of the gospel. As we parted, I asked for his address and telephone number, which he gladly shared. I felt he was truly a newfound friend.
Upon my return to Salt Lake City, I wrote to the Germany Düsseldorf Mission and asked President John F. Charles to send missionaries to continue the gospel discussion. I don’t believe my wife and I met this young man twice by coincidence.
But the Lord doesn’t always give us a second chance to share the gospel. I failed to follow the Spirit the first time the still, small voice unmistakably spoke to my heart and mind. I may not have had another opportunity, but the Lord graciously gave it to me.
We must act when the Spirit speaks. When I did, the young man responded positively to my message. It wasn’t really my message. It was God’s, brought to my mind by the Spirit of the Lord. I was but an instrument in the Lord’s hands.

She was a young girl. She had sacrificed her worldly plans to spend long, tedious hours in work in order to provide for and raise her younger orphan brother. But now she lay on her bed, dying of a sickness. She called for her bishop, and as she talked to him in her last moments, he held her rough, hard, work-calloused hand in his. Then she asked the question “How will God know that I am his?”
Gently he raised her wrist and answered, “Show him your hands.”
Someday we may see that pair of hands that sacrificed so much for us. Are our hands clean, and do they show the signs of being in his service? Are our hearts pure and filled with his thoughts?

Hermann Mössner was nervous as he walked into the chapel. He and his friends from camp were still in their uniforms, marked with the letters “P.O.W.” Everyone knew those letters stood for “prisoner of war.” What would the members of the branch think? Would they see him as their enemy?
The chapel was near Leeds, England. But Hermann wasn’t from England. He was from Germany. After being forced to fight in World War II, Hermann had been captured by British soldiers and sent to an English prison camp. This was his first time at church in a long time.
Hermann took a deep breath as he sat down on one of the benches. He could see the branch president, George Camm, sitting at the front. President Camm was Hermann’s friend. Seeing him smile made Hermann feel better.
Several months ago, President Camm came to visit Hermann at camp after hearing that he was the only member of the Church there. At first Hermann was a little worried. Would President Camm hate him? Their countries had fought against each other in the war, after all.
But when Hermann and President Camm met, they smiled and shook hands. Then they prayed together. They sang songs and talked about the gospel. They even took the sacrament together.
“I love you, my brother,” Hermann said when President Camm had to leave. He saw tears in President Camm’s eyes as he waved goodbye.
After that, President Camm visited Hermann every Saturday. During the rest of the week, Hermann did his best to live the gospel. He shared his testimony with the other prisoners while they worked in the fields. He answered their questions while they carved wood after a long day’s work. Sometimes he prayed with them.
“Hey, Hermann,” one of the prisoners had said one night. “Could I join in with you and Mr. Camm on Saturday?”
Hermann looked up from the block of wood he was carving. He smiled. “Of course!”
“May I too?” another prisoner asked.
Hermann and President Camm were very excited to teach more of the prisoners. Soon some of them even wanted to be baptized!
And now, as Hermann looked around the chapel at the families waiting for church to start, he felt peace. Some members were nervous around Hermann at first. But soon everyone came to trust him. The other prisoners who wanted to learn about the gospel got permission to leave camp to go to church with Hermann on Sundays. Later, Hermann was even called to be the branch Sunday School president.
Time passed, and Christmas got closer. Hermann wanted to do something to thank the members who had been so kind to him. Then he had an idea! It was almost time for the branch Christmas party. Hermann gathered more blocks of wood and started carving. One by one, he turned the blocks into little cars, elephants, planes, trains, and horses.
Finally the day of the party arrived. Everyone ate food and sang Christmas songs together. Hermann and his friends from camp sang Christmas songs in German.
Then Hermann pulled out a big bag. Inside were 40 wooden toys! Hermann gave one to each Primary child. It was a Christmas they would never forget.

When I was younger, my ward had a talent show. My mom and I were performing clogging (a type of dance). I practiced a lot with my mom until it was perfect.
On the night of the talent show, when it was our turn to dance, I realized that I had stage fright. I did not want to perform, so I ran toward the Primary room.
My mom eventually found me sitting near the door, shaking. She saw that I was scared and asked if we should say a prayer. I agreed.
When we got to the stage, I was scared, but I knew God could help me. My mom and I then did our dance proudly. I know Jesus will help us when needed.

All the boys and girls on our street went to Primary except me. Dad was a Latter-day Saint but not active. And Mother was very active in her own church.
I was about five when I first began to feel left out of things. My friends asked me to go to Primary with them, and I kept asking Mom if I could go but she would always say no.
One day after I had coaxed her for awhile, she finally said yes. And after that I went to Primary every week. When I would come home excited about what we had done and what we had learned, I noticed that Mom seemed to like to hear what I could tell her about Primary.

My mom first got baptized into the Church with our younger brother. My elder brother and I were in another church. Our father was a reverend in a different church. My father’s background was Muslim. Our grandfather was an Imam. My father grew up as a Christian because he was not brought up by his parents. Our mother, too, was a Christian. She wanted us to be baptized with her and our younger brother. She was trying her level best to convert us, but I told her “Mom, you be ready to be joining that church, but we are not ready to come along with you.”
One day, her inspired bishop called her for an interview and asked her if she was ready to go to the temple. She gladly accepted and told him yes; she was ready. The day came when she went to the temple. While she was there, she asked Heavenly Father to help her in the conversion of her family. That was the biggest and most important thing to her, and she asked for it with a sincere heart.
When she returned back home, something happened. She started talking to us about the Church and helped us to understand one or two things at a time. She helped us clear up misunderstandings. Slowly, a change came into our hearts. We gradually started learning about the Church. One day she invited me to sacrament meeting. I accepted and went with her.
That first day I attended was the best day of my life. The things I saw that they did, the way it was organized, the love and affection, the welcome of the bishop, the love that members showed to me, it all made me stay. The missionaries started teaching me. They only taught me for two weeks because I was very eager, very very eager to join the Church because of the things I saw. I was taught and baptized. After I was baptized, I kept going to Church and partaking of the sacrament and made sure to do that every week to renew my covenants with my Heavenly Father. I remain active and true to my covenants.
As told to Sister Stacy Wursten on 23 February 2023 at the Accra Ghana MTC.

“They never told us any of this in the MTC,” was all I could think of as I followed my companion down a dismal Düsseldorf side street, shuffling my frozen feet through the dirty snow as I went.
Less than a week before, I had left the Missionary Training Center after two intense but glorious months filled with grammar and vocabulary, discussions and scriptures, and a growing recognition of the workings of the Spirit. Still ringing in my ears were countless stories from teachers and General Authorities of the immeasurable joy that awaited me in the mission field and of the way lives would change because of the message I carried.
As I tracted that day I felt betrayed. The only changed life I could see was my own: changed from the comfort of Arizona sunshine to the misery of a German winter and from the freedom of my pre-mission existence to a life-style of exhausting physical work and infinite restrictions.
I wondered where all the joy could be as we climbed endless staircases to talk to people who didn’t want to talk to us. I wondered too, how the truth could possibly make a difference in the lives of those who shut their doors before hearing a complete sentence. Most of all I wondered where the promised Spirit was: the Spirit that softened the hearts of men like Alma and Saul, that guided missionaries like Ammon and Aaron to proclaim the right words to the right people, and that gave messengers like Abinadi and Samuel the Lamanite the strength of conviction and love for the people to carry on despite all persecution and rejection.
I felt no love for the people, no joy in the work, and no Spirit to comfort or inspire me. All I felt was an ever-increasing, completely foreign bitterness, and an aloneness I never knew existed.
As I fought back steamy tears and silent, choking sobs, I turned my thoughts to home, hoping to ease my desperation for even a second. In that frustrated, confused moment, a single picture unfolded in my mind. I saw my parents kneeling at their bedside, heads bowed and brows furrowed in prayer. Their words were for me. “Dear Father, bless our daughter. Keep her from discouragement and lead her in thy paths.”
As that picture faded, a hundred others tumbled one after the other into its place—pictures of six brothers and a sister; of relatives, friends, and ward members all bowed in prayer for me. I glanced at my watch and realized that it was early morning at home and that those earnest prayers were being said right then. And I knew, with undeniable clarity, that they were being answered right then as a feeling of drenching love and warmth dissolved every negative emotion from my soul. I sensed a powerful, glowing triangle, linking home and heaven and me.
I knew then, with a witness that comes only from the Spirit I had sought, that I was a part of a work not my own, but that of an omniscient, loving Father who sent his Son to show me the way. “I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing” (John 15:5).
Snow still falls and doors still shut, but weekly letters bring a renewed assurance as I read “You are in our prayers,” for I know that each of those prayers ascends to the Source of all love and distills daily upon every servant in His vineyard.

I thought I would never want to forget the hatred I felt that night. I was a high school junior with friends who were good examples and strong in the gospel. One evening, my friends and I decided to organize a scavenger hunt. Each of us asked a date to come along, and we met at a local park. We then spent two hours driving around the valley on a frantic search for old baseball cards, kitchen knives, and various other trinkets. After each couple had collected the necessary items, we all returned to the park.
As my friends and I were happily comparing the success of our scavenger hunts, a line of headlights turned into the park. I soon noticed a group of guys casually strolling toward us. While I sat talking with my date, one of them approached me. I became uneasy when I noticed his hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle.
At first, the stranger seemed rather friendly. He politely asked me what school my friends and I attended. As I began to reply, I felt a cold, wet splash against my shirt. Staring up in shock, I watched this stranger spray his beer onto our group. He then approached one of my unsuspecting friends and punched him in the face. As we stared, frozen in disbelief, the strangers ran back to their cars while tossing their bottles back toward us. We watched them turn out of the park and drive out of sight.
In the days following the incident, I was furious. I became even more bitter when I discovered that some of those guys attended our school. I found myself condemning them in my mind every time I was reminded of the episode. We found ourselves beginning to spread exaggerated accounts of the incident, and I felt a fire of hatred ignite for them. What I didn’t realize was that with every hateful thought and word I was polishing a heart that was becoming hard as granite.
A number of months later, I was planning a devotional for my seminary class. During my preparation, I found myself struggling to find a topic for my presentation. Frustrated, I opened my scriptures to Matthew. Midway through chapter 6, I read verse 15 [Matt. 6:15] which shone like a vivid light. It stated, “But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”
It was then I decided to focus my devotional on forgiveness. As I pondered this scripture and how it related to my life, I remembered the incident at the park. At that moment I realized how dark my spirit had become. As I pondered how difficult forgiveness was for me, I looked to Christ—mankind’s greatest example. I remembered as the Savior hung on the cross, looking down upon men who had just mocked, beaten, and were about to crucify him. I was further amazed when I realized that Christ not only forgave those who wronged him, but he died for their sins as well.
After thinking, I decided I would strive to set aside my judgmental nature and realize my own faults. I always try to remember that I have offended others as well. Because all people make mistakes, we as Heavenly Father’s children must focus on overcoming our own weaknesses rather than judging our neighbor’s shortcomings.
Although I still struggle to forgive the guys at the park, I now realize that they made a mistake which they may or may not regret. I know now that I have to forgive and move on rather than be held back by my anger.